


the ineptitudes of totalitarianism

by loyaulte_me_lie



Category: Brave New World - Aldous Huxley, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background Relationships, Because Brave New World, Crossover, F/M, M/M, Multi, Revolutionaries, Slow Burn, established relationships - Freeform, scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 02:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: there’s more dissent in this brave new world than anyone ever realised // or // a les mis/brave new world crossover, because wherever les amis go, political unrest is sure to follow.





	the ineptitudes of totalitarianism

**Author's Note:**

> This story grew legs and ran away from me. Inspired by a local theatre company's incredible production of 'A Brave New World.' I could rant and rave about it all day, so I channelled it into this fic. Hope you enjoy :)

**I**

They meet at the Jardin du Soma, the world spinning and the fluorescent lights dripping off the walls in a bubbling stream of purple and yellow and blue. The floor shakes, possessed, the beat writhing through it. All around him, soma-hazed people dance, limbs twisted until they form one thousand-footed monster, a thousand arms raised to the dank ceiling that masquerades as the night sky, completely indistinguishable as individuals. He stands at the edge of the dance floor, looking over them, Éponine making a great pretence of hanging off him. “Come onnnnn,” she slurs, winding her arms around his neck and rising up on her toes so her mouth is a whisper from his – “he’s over there, in the centre, the one with the gingery hair. Bossuet says he’s expecting you” – and then she kisses him, just to be sure. He slides a hand around her lower back, feeling the plastic crackle of her neon skirt against his fingertips, then lets her pull him into the crowd. The music shakes through his bones, and she presses close, baring her teeth at anyone who tries to slide a hand between them, eyes rolling like a wild creature.

“Stop having so much fun,” he hisses in her ear at one point, scanning the room for de Courfeyrac. Joly had said he was quite small…

“I’m keeping them off you, don’t complain,” she snaps back, writhing upwards. “Can’t come in a place like this looking like that and expect no-one to want to have the sex with you.”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. She goes back to pretending to be high, leaving him to peer through the trailing ivy and plastic flowers as surreptitiously as he can. If anything looks planned, the cameras will pick it up; spontaneity is the word of the moment, anything else is considered near criminal. After about ten minutes, he sees a relatively short, auburn haired man disengage from one of the people surrounding him, wipe his mouth, look around. Enjolras catches his eye. De Courfeyrac pushes his sunglasses further up his nose, raises an eyebrow, jerks his head imperiously. Enjolras bites back on a sigh – only an alpha-plus would be obnoxious enough to wear sunglasses inside at a club – pushes Éponine towards the other guy she’s been eyeing up since they got in, and fakes a stumble out of the club, past the huge Gamma bouncers who stand solidly, mountainous, on either side of the door, their arms folded as though they could stop landslides. De Courfeyrac arrives a second later, sliding a hand into his. It’s warm and dry, none of the tell-tale stickiness of soma lining his palms.

“Where are you taking me, pretty boy?” his voice is low, slightly rough.

“Wherever you want to go,” Enjolras tries to match the tone, turning into de Courfeyrac, looking down. The other still hasn’t taken off his sunglasses, but he tilts his face up expectantly; Enjolras watches his eyes flicker upwards to the security cameras nesting in the corner of the grimy lobby, then leans down to press his lips to de Courfeyrac’s, his stomach clenching unpleasantly. De Courfeyrac’s mouth opens a little, his tongue flicks, wet and smooth, across Enjolras’ lower lip. He moans, and Enjolras has to fight the instinctive recoil.

“You _are_ as good as Nina said,” de Courfeyrac purrs, sliding his hands down the front of Enjolras’ jacket. “Maybe I will let you take me home. Come on.”

With a salute to the bouncers that neither of them acknowledges, de Courfeyrac drags him out into the street. The chill air digs sharp fingers into the open neck of Enjolras’ shirt. De Courfeyrac shivers, so Enjolras wraps an arm around his shoulders, ducks the both of them into the backstreets as soon as they are far enough away from the club entrance and its shiny, wavering circle of light.

“Do you mind keeping your arm there, it’s bloody freezing,” is the first thing de Courfeyrac says the second they’re alone, pressing a little bit closer. “I mean, you don’t have to, sorry. Bossuet said you’re not one for much physical contact.”

“Walking will warm you up too,” Enjolras says. “It’s not far to my safehouse, anyway.”

“ _Safehouse?_ Are things really that dire?”

“They’re useful. No microphones. We’ll talk there. There’s a camera that catches the edge of my doorway, though.”

“Just continue our show. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“True.”

De Courfeyrac must sense the underlayer of disgust in Enjolras’ voice, but he doesn’t say anything, just quickens his pace. Something splashes underfoot. The moon slips through the sky, gathering up the traces of clouds; Enjolras leads them unerringly through the maze of the Latin Quartier, pulling up outside a rowhouse somewhere between the Seine and the Hall of the Controllers. De Courfeyrac drapes himself languidly across Enjolras’ back as Enjolras fumbles for his key, letting a hand slide around his chest. Enjolras breathes through the feeling of being touched, thinks: _it’s only for the cameras. You have to get used to this,_ and then turns the key, squeaking open the door. He pulls de Courfeyrac in after him, shutting out the camera. De Courfeyrac immediately steps away and follows him up the stairs. Enjolras takes off the stupid clubbing jacket Éponine had got from who knows where, slings it over the bannister so the concierge will find it in the morning and make assumptions to their neighbours about his nocturnal activities. He knocks lightly on the door.

“Mission accomplished,” he says through the peephole. It slides open, and Combeferre is waiting, in a rumpled t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, running a hand through his hair. His eyes flicker to de Courfeyrac, still in clubbing clothes and sunglasses, imperturbable.

“So I see.” He steps aside to let them cross the threshold. Enjolras heads straight for the kettle, but is paused by de Courfeyrac’s gasp, slicing into the air. The door shuts, hurriedly. He turns; de Courfeyrac is standing in the middle of the open plan sitting room, staring around him at all the books piled high in crates, old and dusty and smelling of something long-lost to the years buried unquiet beneath streets and fields and sky. He drops his sunglasses on the floor, stretches out his arms – a smile, a wide, _beautiful_ smile is tearing at his face.

“This is…guys, I have not seen so many books in…well, _ever._ This is _amazing._ ”

“We aim to please, Monsieur de Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, drily.

“Oh for all that’s – not the ‘de’, please not the ‘de’. I don’t know what Bossuet told his lovers, but that participle gives me migraines, I beg you not to use it. Just Courfeyrac is fine. Bloody participles, I’m not _of_ anything.”

“Courfeyrac, then,” Combeferre says. “Thank you for coming along tonight. I am Egalité, over there is Liberté. You won’t know our real names…”

“I mean, that’s all fine and dandy but you know mine, and it’s not like Liberté over there is particularly hard to miss.”

“Point taken, but still. Precautions are in place for a reason. We’ll reveal our identities when we’ve worked out whether we can trust you.”

“I have a selection of highly illegal books under my bed, as Bossuet must have told you.”

“You’re an alpha-plus. We’re not.”

“What are you?”

“Classified.”

“Fine, fine, I get it, I’ll shut up until I’ve been useful. I brought the contact you needed, three seconds…” Courfeyrac bends down, rummages around in his boot for a second, and then pulls out a scrap of real paper. “Bahorel’s a good sort, she’s been running books in and out as long as I’ve known her, which has been quite a while. Kind of broke the conditioning. Interesting lady. It’s probably better if I get in contact with her, because I know her – I can bring the two of you along to our meeting.”

“Meet her here,” Enjolras says, brain sketching out a plan of attack. Courfeyrac narrows his eyes at him for a moment, then nods.

“Sure. When?”

“Will Bahorel be around tomorrow night? We need to get these out of here before we decommission the safehouse.”

“Bahorel is always around.” Courfeyrac drifts towards the pile of books nearest the window, crouches down to look them, running a finger reverently down the knobs of their spines. Enjolras can’t see his face. Combeferre gives him a significant look. “Is this political philosophy? I’ve been meaning to get my hands on some for a while but Bahorel hasn’t been able to find any.”

“You’re welcome to stay and read it,” Combeferre says after a moment. “I’ll put the kettle on, make a cup of tea.”

“How quaint.” Courfeyrac pulls the volume loose. “As long as you two don’t mind. We are supposed to be having wild soma-fuelled sex right now, so it’s probably best to keep up the pretence.” This last directed at Enjolras, who winces a little.

“Rousseau is infinitely preferable,” he murmurs, finding mugs and teabags from the cupboard above the sink and handing them to Combeferre, picking up his own book from the side and settling into the armchair by the fireplace. The rain has started to spit idly against the window. Courfeyrac has shucked off his shoes and jacket, curled up on the patchy divan with the huge tome open on his knees. Combeferre puts the tea set on the table in between them, and they all dissolve into their books, lost in ink and crackling paper, and an endless swaying sea of words.

*****

Courfeyrac ends up staying all night. In the morning, he pinches his neck a few times – “it’ll look like I’ve got a hickey” – picks up his jacket and puts down the book. The circles under his eyes are grey and weeping around the edges. “I’ll see you this evening,” he says. “Thank you, for the books.”

“Interesting chap,” Combeferre yawns after the door has shut. Enjolras feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth; Courfeyrac had been buried in the book for three hours and then began throwing awful puns and witty comments around as though they were bullets and he was fighting for his life against some unknown foe buried in the paper. Then they’d got into a discussion about education, and Courfeyrac had pressed his sock-feet against the side of Combeferre’s leg and said, I’m keeping you guys.

We’re not animals, Combeferre had replied gently; Courfeyrac had just laughed.

“Yes, he is.”

“You like him.”

“You do not?”

Combeferre pulls a face, picks up the mugs to take them back into the kitchen.

“It’s rare to find an alpha-plus willing to rebel,” Enjolras says calmly. “He has access to things we do not, he provides a cover…”

“He’s a little too charming for comfort.” Combeferre holds up his hand, “I’m not saying we leave him in the dust. Just be cautious. We have a good set-up here; I know we need to expand but we don’t want to bring a snake into the nest and get exiled just when everything is starting to work.”

Enjolras rises to his feet, reaches out to clasp Combeferre’s shoulder. “Give him a chance,” he says. Combeferre smiles but it’s more of a grimace, and nods. Outside, the rain floods the city in damp silver light. A pigeon coos.

**II.**

They let Courfeyrac bring Bahorel in before they show their faces. Just in case, Combeferre says tightly. Enjolras touches the gun in his underarm holster and thinks about the knife in his boot and doesn’t reply. Through the siphoned-off security feeds they watch the two of them climb the stairs, Bahorel a big, hulking woman with a nose cracked from misuse and a red plastic coat on, Courfeyrac small and chattering away. They are alone. Éponine has been following them all day, has seen nothing of a police tail.

“We should work together more,” Bahorel says after a few moments conversation. Her accent is as thick as treacle, twangy and sure of itself. “Courfeyrac doesn’t think you’re working for the government.”

“You trust him?”

“Who do you think got my ass out of prison in the USA, buddy?”

“You were wrongly accused,” Courfeyrac re-joins the conversation from where he’d been examining another work of political philosophy intently, as though he could hold the book and let the ideas diffuse into his bloodstream. “Trumped up charges. Ridiculous, really.”

“The whole thing is ridiculous,” Bahorel says, shaking her head. Neither Enjolras nor Combeferre need to ask what she’s talking about.

**III.**

“My name is Enjolras, Rene Enjolras,” he whispers, a few nights later. “Egalité’s is Yves-Emmanuel Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac looks up from the latest book, gives him a cat-grin, bright and more than a little bit sneaky. “Good to meet you, Rene Enjolras,” he says, and Enjolras wonders why it feels like something beginning to unravel.

**IV.**

They invite Courfeyrac and Bahorel to the next meeting of the Amis. Éponine spends most of the night sitting on the table scraping a knife across her nails (“Subtle,” Combeferre tells her. “You’re not the one I might stab,” she says, her hair tumbling loose across the slope of her neck as she turns to kiss his cheek). Jehan recites a new poem from the top of table to rapturous applause. Feuilly doesn’t leave his corner, Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta draw Bahorel immediately down to sit in their tangle of limbs on the floor, giggling and passing a bottle of wine back and forth.

“Who’s that?” Courfeyrac asks midway through the gathering when the door opens again. Enjolras feels every muscle go stiff, clenches his pen hard between his fingers. The sticky-sweet smell of soma creeps through the air, winds its way sensuously up his nose.

“Hi Grantaire!” Bossuet calls over. “Come meet our newest recruit!”

Enjolras refuses to look at him, refuses to acknowledge him; doesn’t stop Grantaire trailing a hand across his shoulders, doesn’t stop the sound of Grantaire’s heavy, soma-slowed breath scraping nails up his spine. Grantaire sits down with the others. Enjolras heaves a huge sigh.

“How about we take a walk?” Courfeyrac suggests, gentle.

**V.**

“Why do you put up with him?”

“Everyone needs a safe place to land. We just happen to be his.”

**VI.**

Their pamphlet gets spread all over Paris, creeping and crawling through the underground networks to every fraying edge of the city. It breaks the surface first at the Law School. One of the teachers finds it not long after, and the student gets reported, the city flies into uproar. On the nightly news, the World Controller for Western Europe speaks icily of terrorism, of those dangerous delinquents threatening the very fabric of civilisation. In the underground room of the Musain building, Courfeyrac hi-fives every single one of them. Enjolras stands on a chair and quietly tells them how brilliant they all are, every single one of them who contributed words and art and soul to the piece of paper currently taking the country by storm.

“Onwards and upwards,” he promises, his voice a whisper for the patrons upstairs. “We’re on our way.”

**VII.**

One night, Courfeyrac appears at the new safehouse with a pair of kids, pale and trembling and holding hands so tightly they could crush each other’s bones into clouds of dust and ash. Combeferre rolls his eyes, but puts down his pen, flicks on the kettle.

“Look, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be bringing them here but…”

“Yes, you shouldn’t,” Combeferre says. “We can’t just provide sanctuary for every hard luck story you scoop off the street. They could be spies, they could be agents…”

“If Marius is an agent I’ll eat my sunglasses,” Courfeyrac interrupts. “His grandfather is a friend of my uncle’s. And he’s a monogamist. This is his girlfriend, Euphrasie.”

“Cosette,” the girl corrects. “Only my father calls me Euphrasie anymore.”

“ _Father_?” Combeferre gapes. Enjolras folds his arms.

“We have to hide just as much as you do,” Cosette says. “I don’t exist. Marius risks everything to be with me. What would we gain from reporting a ring of book smugglers?”

“Quite a lot,” Combeferre says, but he’s already making tea, and Courfeyrac is wearing a self-satisfied little smile at the tinkling sound of the metal spoon against the china. “Fine. You can stay. But we’re moving again, Courfeyrac, and _you_ can be the one to find a new place.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we’re safe as houses.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes. The two kids look confused. Enjolras smiles.

**VIII.**

The books keep cycling in and out of their possession, tides of them, lunar cycles, precession and obliquity, books blocking out the sun, books dripping poison into the cracks and crevices of their sand-built society. The Amis write pamphlets and smuggle books to crucial people and the air gets tighter, harder to breathe.

One time, in front of the old Elysee Palace, Enjolras is stopped. He stands very still, lets the police manhandle him.

“Identity papers!” one of them barks from behind his mask. Enjolras feels a chill slide, noose-like, around his neck. He makes a show of fumbling for papers that he doesn’t yet have. The old ones are useless after a series of raids and Feuilly is still trying to find a supply of the special ink for the new. The police officer is looking more and more impatient, and Enjolras takes a breath, resigns himself to being found out, to being thrown in jail and killed or deported, resigns himself to the fact that Combeferre will never find out what has happened to him when:

“I’ll vouch for this one.”

Courfeyrac’s voice is cold, aloof. He walks into Enjolras’ eyeline, his clothes screaming alpha-plus, screaming government, screaming everything that Enjolras, currently impersonating a dead delta, is not. He scrapes a hand proprietarily over Enjolras’ shoulder. The police officers fall back a step.

“Are you _sure,_ sir?” one of them ventures. Courfeyrac just raises an eyebrow, icy. Enjolras keeps his face blank.

“When one has such a good night with one of the lower castes, one tends to want to look out for them a little since they’re so unable to do it for themselves. I’m sure you understand.”

“Very good, sir,” the officer says, and motions for his squad to fall in behind him. Enjolras and Courfeyrac stand in the middle of the street, the crowd parting around them like an ancient sea, until the hobnailed boots have turned the corner. Courfeyrac makes a peremptory gesture; Enjolras stares at his friend.

“Kiss me,” Courfeyrac hisses out of the corner of his mouth. “People are watching.”

Enjolras does what he’s told, bends down obediently to put his hands on the back of Courfeyrac’s black velvet jacket. They kiss for a few long seconds, and Enjolras wonders when on earth all of this became _okay_ with Courfeyrac, when it stopped making his guts want to twist themselves apart. Courfeyrac pulls away, digs his nails into Enjolras’ cheek and smiles, half himself, half the man he’s inhabiting today. His eyes are darker despite the sunshine oozing off the eaves of the buildings.

“See you later, pretty boy,” he says, and then he’s gone, back into the crowd of politicians and staff gushing through the street. Enjolras stands and watches him go.

**IX.**

“Grantaire won’t do anything,” he finds himself reassuring another new member of the circle. Louise glares at Grantaire, at the sodden soma-haze that bleeds out of his skin, soaking the air around him. “I promise,” Enjolras says. “He may be annoying, but he won’t harm us. He doesn’t have the guts.”

“If you’re sure, chief,” she says, her voice telling him anything but.

**X.**

One night, Enjolras is in the Musain alone when Grantaire comes in. The other man’s footsteps weave around the room, he’s muttering away to the empty air. Enjolras ignores him and ignores him, focussing on the words pouring down from his brain onto the paper when suddenly Grantaire’s hand is on his shoulder and pulling him upwards and around. Grantaire’s breath stinks of soma and alcohol and he pushes his face close, his eyes bloodshot and unseeing.

“Why won’t you?” he demands. “Why?”

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras says, as calm as he can pull together, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Please let go of me.”

“You let everyone else come close. You let them touch you. Why not me? Why? I’m asking you a question, don’t look at me like that, you utter scum, you birthed scum, you’re coming in and ruining it all and trying to make a better world but there is no better world than this, this is the peak of human civilisation and you’re trying to rip it all down but what’s going to be left? _What’s going to be left?_ ”

Grantaire surges up, tries to kiss him, but Enjolras shoves him away, takes three steps backwards. Grantaire crumbles into a heap in the floor.  “Don’t come back here,” Enjolras says, cold, taking up his coat.

It’s only when he’s outside that he realises he’s shaking.

**XI.**

Of course, it is Courfeyrac who finds him. Combeferre is off somewhere with Éponine, at a club probably, dancing and making out and listening to all the high politicians talk about the Amis as though they’re a danger, a threat, listening to their words for any intelligence they can scrape off the surface. Enjolras goes through the motions of making a cup of tea, settling into his armchair with his latest book, but he can’t make his eyes focus on the words and he can’t stop thinking about the smell of Grantaire’s breath and his words, reverberating around in Enjolras’ skull.

The door clicks open at about midnight and Courfeyrac wanders in, clutching a takeaway carton and his sunglasses. “Morning,” he says, cheerful, teetering on the edge of tipsy. “You alright down there?”

“Mmhm.”

“Enjolras?”

“What?” Enjolras doesn’t look up from his book, _can’t_ look up from it. Courfeyrac’s footsteps pad closer until he is standing right above him. The plastic clubbing coat crackles.

“Okay, I’m sorry for what happened in the street earlier, it was the only way I could think to get you out of the situation, and I know it’s not perfect but surely you don’t mind kissing me just to stay alive, I mean…” Courfeyrac’s voice is forced, the lightness covering up something Enjolras doesn’t think he has a name for. He drags his eyes upwards; Courfeyrac’s face is lined with worry. The takeaway carton is abandoned on the side.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he tells Courfeyrac firmly. “I’m not ‘in a mood’ because of that. Thank you, by the way, it saves us quite the setback.”

“ _Setback_?” Courfeyrac starts, then his voice breaks on a laugh and he pulls off his coat, sinks to the floor at Enjolras’ feet. “You’re the strangest human I have ever met _ever._ You were going to be _arrested_ and possibly _killed_ and it’s just a _setback_?”

Enjolras shrugs. Courfeyrac puts his chin on Enjolras’ knee, looks up at him, eyes wide and blue-green like the rockpools back where Enjolras was a child. At any moment, he wonders whether he’ll spot an anemone or a crab, scuttling through their depths. “Promise me,” Courfeyrac says, suddenly serious, “that you won’t treat your life like that, that you’ll take care of yourself. I can’t tell you how scared I was when I came out of work to see you surrounded by police officers.”

“I can’t promise anything. The cause comes first.”

“But without you, where’s the cause? You’re our figurehead, the one who keeps everyone in order and on track. You’re…you’re one of my best friends. We need you, you the _person,_ not a martyr. Promise.”

Enjolras huffs, closes his book. “Fine. I promise.”

Courfeyrac’s smile is a supernova, exploding into the blank grey space of the airless box they are currently calling home. When Enjolras doesn’t return it, he tilts his head: “What were you upset about, then, if it wasn’t me? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, of course, but it might help to not carry it with you until it goes sour.”

Enjolras fidgets with his fingernails, with the edge of the cover, suddenly avoiding Courfeyrac’s eyes again. The thing with Grantaire…well, he was expecting it, one day or another, and he’ll have to tell Combeferre, but the…the _implications,_ the fact that Grantaire somehow _knows_ where he came from…

Courfeyrac is quiet, listening. Enjolras gathers his courage close. “I had an…altercation…with Grantaire earlier tonight. He accosted me, in the way he does with others – you know, Louise and Éponine that one time. I have been expecting it for a while, to be honest…”

“Doesn’t make it any less unpleasant for you,” Courfeyrac’s eyes flash. “He doesn’t know where the boundaries are. Sure, everyone belongs to everyone and all, but that comes with the caveat of consent. Rape is still a crime.”

“I didn’t let him get far enough.”

“Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry, though that it happened. What are you going to do about it?”

“We’re going to have to leave and leave Grantaire behind. He…I don’t trust him anymore.”

“Okay, well – I understand, but you’ve always said he’s harmless, was this…”

They lapse into silence. Courfeyrac is watching him, waiting. Enjolras turns the words over in his mouth like pebbles; they chink quietly against his tongue and he wonders whether he should say them, whether Courfeyrac needs to know, but it’s the only…

“Grantaire has somehow found out that I’m a feral.”

Courfeyrac stares at him for a moment, then reaches out to take his hand, sliding his fingers in between Enjolras’ so they are palm-to-palm, life-lines touching, his hand warm and dry and clean. “To be honest, I’m not particularly surprised.” Then, “which reservation did you come from?”

“The Aegean one, in the Greek islands. My father was an exile, my mother a native. I spent nearly twenty years there, growing up. It was bad, but not as bad as some of them, I think. The sunshine made the officials mellow, and we rarely went hungry. People sometimes came to gawk at us, but that was it.” A pause. “I suppose you want to know how I ended up here.”

“Well, I am curious, but I understand if you don’t want to tell your whole life story on a miserable rainy evening when you could be reading,” Courfeyrac says in a very good imitation of Combeferre; Enjolras feels a reluctant smile spreading across his face. “Up to you, my friend.”

Enjolras squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand, trying to fill the gesture with all the words he cannot say, transmit them through Courfeyrac’s skin and into his soul. Courfeyrac gives him another one of those smiles and rests his cheek against their clasped hands.

“I suppose we need to figure out what to do about Grantaire. How would he have known?”

“Combeferre, Éponine, and now you are the only three who know,” Enjolras says. “He must have been eavesdropping one night when it was just me and them in the Musain.”

“That’s awkward.”

“He could report me, and I’d be done for. As you said, I’m not exactly hard to miss and I don’t really look like anyone fertilised around my time.”

“Maybe it’s time to rack it up a step?” Courfeyrac asks, his eyes suddenly a little fevered. “Books and pamphlets are all very well, but the population is getting used to them.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“No murder. Nothing that will offend your morals. Just perhaps…more obvious protests. Things they can’t suppress as easily. If we were a corporation, I’d call it a rebrand.”

Enjolras hums, considering. “We’ll ask Combeferre.”

**XI.**

The mural goes up in the dead of night in the Place de la Monde, just outside the Nidas Centre in the old Louvre Museum. As the sun rises, the screaming reds and drowning blues and nothing blacks light up, unavoidable, searing the image into the wall and passing, gawking eyes. A woman cradles a small baby, her head bent just like Éponine’s sometimes is, a man stands behind them with his arms around her waist. The baby sleeps, soft, sound, and the parents smile down at it as though there is nothing in the universe but that moment, them and their child and the paint on the bricks. Beneath it:

LOVE IS NOT A CRIME.

It makes the nightly news.

The next morning, there are more police on the street than ever before.

**XII.**

Three days after the first mural, Bahorel is arrested. Enjolras is down the other end of the street when it happens – he only sees the flash of her red coat, her twangy accent heaping profanity upon the heads of the officers taking her in. His feet want to fly to her, to fight them off, but he swallows down the impulse, forces his feet to stay still, to keep cleaning windows.

“Any news?” he asks at the new meeting place that night. Everyone’s faces are pale and drawn. Éponine shakes her head.

“Won’t be for a while. We’d better lay low.”

“No, we’d better keep going,” Courfeyrac counters. “We’ve got them on the back foot. We can _do_ this.” He holds Enjolras’ eyes for a long moment; something twines through Enjolras ribs, snaking around his heart, not unpleasant, not tight – simply warm, comforting, _present._ He glances around at the constellation of scared eyes and set mouths and defiant chins, landing on Combeferre, who meets his gaze steadily, inclines his head.

“We already dived in headfirst,” he points out, pragmatic. “Might as well keep swimming. Bahorel would have wanted us to.”

“She’s not dead,” Jehan says.

“No, of course not.”

“Anyone who doesn’t want to carry on may leave,” Enjolras tells them, voice resonant. “As long as you don’t report us there will be no repercussions.”

No-one moves a muscle. “So,” Combeferre says to the room at large. “I guess we’re doing this.”

**XIII.**

Éponine hangs out of the safehouse window, her cigarette dangling from her fingers, a glowing firefly against the night. She’s dressed in one of Combeferre’s old shirts; he watches her sleepily from the bed, the cut of her silhouette against the window-frame and the luminescent streetlight at the end of the close. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly are out with their paints, hitting another part of the city with the poem Jehan had written to honour Bahorel.

“Bet you never thought sneaking Enjolras into the World State would end up like this,” Éponine says after a moment, her voice quiet and tobacco-stained.

“Mmm.” Combeferre pulls the duvet closer. “Perhaps not exactly like this, but I knew what I wanted. I could tell he’d be a good partner.”

“Do you think he knows about Courf?”

Combeferre starts to give her a _look_ before remembering that she won’t see it in the murk of the room. “It’s _Enjolras._ ”

“Everyone else has noticed, it’s not like Courf is hiding it. Do you think Enjolras would?”

“No idea. Courfeyrac’s become a dear friend to him, and if it was to be anyone I think it would be him.”

“Well,” Éponine pauses. Smoke curls out of the window. “I’m getting bloody sick of this dancing around each other. They’d better do something _soon_ or I’ll make them.”

“Not everyone can be as blunt as you, ‘Ponine.”

“Would make the world easier.” There’s a rustle and Éponine abandons the window to crawl back into the bed with him, leaning over to give him a kiss. He smiles against her mouth, smoothing a thumb across her cheek, and pulling her close.

**XIV.**

“What’s the matter?”

Courfeyrac looks up to see Enjolras hovering at the door to the safehouse; he dashes the ridiculous tears away with the back of his hand, feeling his heart swell and squeeze. Enjolras’ fair brows are drawn together, he crosses the kitchen and hovers at Courfeyrac’s elbow.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Enjolras crouches down next to him, putting a hand on his elbow. Warmth tip-toes up his veins. “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing I promise. I’m just overtired, and at work today, I had to sign off on a bunch of epsilons being sent to the silk factories in old China. I went to see them, down at the airport, and they were…god, Enjolras, they were just kids, but they were so blank, so empty; I just, I just can’t stop thinking…what must it be like, to have so little soul you are nothing but a machine for the benefit of others? How can we deny people their _souls_?”

A lump sticks in his throat and he cannot go on. Enjolras stands, pulls him out of his chair and into an unexpected, warm embrace; Courfeyrac presses his face into Enjolras’ shoulder, breathes in rain and sweat and detergent from the window-cleaner job Enjolras has been doing for the last two months. If only the world were easier, he thinks to himself. If they could fly back to years lost in the folds of universe, where people could love each other openly, where people were free, where people were _happy._ “It’s awful,” Enjolras is murmuring. “I know it is, it makes me so angry too. But we’re working to stop it, you and me and everyone in our group. We’re going to make it stop. I promise.”

Courfeyrac clings tighter. “Can we just stay here for a bit?” he asks, his words muffled in Enjolras’ t-shirt. Enjolras only tightens his arms.

*

They end up sharing the bed. It went something like this:

[“you are not taking the floor”

“it’s your bed”

“i don’t care, there’s plenty of space for two people. Combeferre and I share it all the time”

(Courfeyrac wishes that he could snap _but Combeferre is not in love with you_ but of course he can’t, that’s not how this story is supposed to go)

“fine, fine, move up”]

*

He finishes his book at about eleven to find Enjolras watching him, golden hair loose across the pillow. Courfeyrac’s tongue is book-drunk, sleepy. “Why do you not like to be close to people?”

“I don’t mind with you, anymore.” Enjolras’ voice has a defensive edge, and Courfeyrac reaches out to take his hand, run fingers across the indents of Enjolras’ knuckles.

“Kind of meant it generally. Like when we met, or when I see you gritting your teeth at clubs. Even though you’re not from here, I just thought…well, the people at work say that the civilised world is the way it is because this is what people wanted – lots of sex, none of the commitment. I’ve never met a person who’s actively uncomfortable with that part of it.”

Enjolras is quiet for a while. His fingers hold Courfeyrac’s, and Courfeyrac breathes this in, this closeness, this solemnity, this moment; him and the man he can’t imagine life without, sharing a pillow, holding hands. Life could be like this, he thinks all of a sudden. Life _could have been_ like this.

“We have monogamy where I come from,” Enjolras says eventually. “On the reservations, you find one person and pledge yourself to them. I mean, if you want to. The gods they worship honour the love between people. Here, there is no honour, no love. They think monogamy is disgusting and boring, but my father…well, he used to say that there was nothing more incredible than waking up in the arms of someone you love and trust, that there was nothing in the world that could compare to being that close with another human being, for you to be theirs, and them to be yours. I suppose, growing up with that, I can’t stand to be touched with just lust. It feels wrong to be wanted for just my body or my face, like people who do that discredit my soul.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth has gone dry. He raises himself up on his elbow, catching his fleeing bravery between his teeth. Enjolras’ face is soft in the lamplight. “What if…what if they _did_ care about your soul?” he asks.

“Well, then. That would be an entirely different matter.” Then, “Éponine told me, you know.”

“ _What_?”

“Don’t be too hard on her. She was getting annoyed at us.”

Courfeyrac gapes, then flops back onto the bed melodramatically, flinging a hand over his eyes; Enjolras still hasn’t let the other one go. “Why does she _do_ this to me?” he whines. “She ruins everything!”

“Stop being a child,” Enjolras says, but his voice is fond, sends pleasant shivers crawling up Courfeyrac’s spine. Courfeyrac glances over at him from between his fingers.

“So…”

“Yes?”

“Since you know I’ve fallen completely in love with you, there’s nothing much else I can say, apart from…well, do you feel the same way, or should I go find a highly illegal movie, eat ice-cream, and sob with Joly and Bossuet?”

“You have been reading too many of those books for teenagers.” Enjolras is smiling. “In answer to your question; I…I don’t know. But I’d like to keep doing this with you. Perhaps I’ll find out?”

“The only way you could have sounded more like yourself is if you’d told me love is for fools and I should be thinking about the cause.”

“Perhaps in another time,” Enjolras shrugs. “But being in love, here and now; it’s a political act. Love will be the future. Why should I turn my back on it?”

Courfeyrac’s words have abandoned him. He rolls over, leans up on one elbow and presses a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead. Enjolras puts an arm around him and pulls him close.

**XV.**

He’s pacing the floor, glancing at the clock every other second and wondering why the time sticks, why it won’t move more quickly. “They’ll be _fine,_ ” Courfeyrac reassures him from the chair. “They’ve done this nearly twenty times now. _Breathe_.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not worried.”

“Of course I am. I’m always worried when Enjolras goes out, just like you are with Éponine, but we have to trust them. It’s the only way.”

Combeferre heaves a sigh, takes another turn around the sitting room. “It’s just…they’re usually back by now.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says. And then, as if that is not enough, “I know.”

*

They’re running, through dry, aching streets, the summer night stretched tight over the rooftops. Behind them, the pound of boots on paving stones. There’s a muffled crack, a whoosh; it takes Enjolras a moment to realise they’re shooting, the police are _shooting_ at them. His breaths burn his lungs, but he has to keep moving, they have to, they’re in the shadows and out of sight and he’s pretty sure the police have no idea who they are looking for; if their hands weren’t smeared with paint, he’d risk hitting one of the boulevards, blending in with the partygoers.

Another bullet spits by, and another. They’re shooting at ghosts, but then he realises Éponine isn’t by his side anymore, she’s doubled over at the entrance to the alley and he can hear the police and…

“Go!” Éponine hisses. “Go! I’ll be fine!”

Enjolras runs back towards her, wraps an around her shoulder; his fingers encounter something sticky and Éponine chokes back a cry. He glances over his shoulder – he can hear them – “they’ve gone in here” “split up” “there’s a dead end down there, they’ll be trapped” – and thinks grimly, _oh, if only you knew._

“Come on, Éponine,” he whispers roughly, heaving her up and over his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Asshole,” she says.

The time spurts by; one moment he is running, and then he is dragging Éponine through a tiny crack between two houses, and the next he is paused, listening for the police again, but there is only the drunken shrieks of someone a few streets over, the whisper of curtains against half-open glass panes.

It takes another half-hour to sneak across the city to the latest safe-house, and by the time they’re there, he has to half-drag Éponine up the stairs, limp and un-protesting, her eyes fluttering shut. Combeferre opens the door.

“Where have you been I…Éponine! What happened?”

“The police were shooting,” Enjolras says, surrendering Éponine into Combeferre’s arms.

She makes a little noise of protest. “Stupid pigs.” Her voice is slow, but she rests her head against Combeferre’s shoulder. “Hit me in the shoulder. I’ll be fine, Yves, promise.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he tells her, half-stern, half-fond relief. “Sit down, take your shirt off.”

“You always ask me so nicely. Bloody hell that hurts, shit, Yves stop it!”

“Next time don’t put yourself in front of a bullet and maybe it won’t hurt so much!”

“Not like I had any choice about it!”

“You two, hush,” Enjolras snaps. “Éponine, he’s trying to help you. Combeferre, I know you’re scared but don’t take it out on her, we were all caught by surprise.”

“Did Feuilly and Jehan get away alright?” Courfeyrac ventures.

“With any luck.” Enjolras walks to the window, Courfeyrac follows, leaving Combeferre to tend to Éponine’s wound on the sofa. He puts an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders; the tension cutting ribbons into his flesh. Every inch of Enjolras is a tightrope, drawn taut over an endless, howling abyss. “Does it feel,” he asks after a moment, “as though there’s a war on a horizon?”

Courfeyrac has no answer.

**XVI.**

let me ask you a question.

what happens

when the gunfire starts?

do you run?

or do you stand up with your back to a wall and raise your flag and smile as the bullets lodge themselves in your heart?

(it’s a simple choice, really)

**XVII.**

“I love you,” Enjolras tells him, one night, in bed. Courfeyrac is half submerged in sleep, his head pressed into the join between Enjolras’ neck and shoulder. There is a scar there, ridged and rough, and he breathes it in, breathes in this man, this man with so much soul it spills out of every crevice of his body, every inch of his skin.

So this is what it feels like.

**XVIII.**

They put on ski masks, Enjolras and Combeferre, sit in the half-dark on their sofa. Courfeyrac would be laughing if it wasn’t so serious. The others are all crammed in the corners of the room. Éponine’s arm is bound in a sling, her hair is loose around her face. The video camera blinks, red, hesitant. The world is a held breath, swollen with oxygen and anticipation.

“Perhaps you know us,” Enjolras says, magnetic, his electricity-blue eyes focussed straight into the camera. “Perhaps you’ve seen one of our murals, read one of our pamphlets, received a book we’ve smuggled into Paris. We’ve been in hiding, skimming under the surface, but now we’re ready to step into the light. Change is coming, and the only way we’re going to win this is if you step outside of the little boxes that have been created for you. Ask yourselves questions. Is this civilisation? Is this the be all and end all of humanity? Thousands of years of evolution and we end up with sex and soma? Couldn’t we be so much more?”

**Author's Note:**

> tumble with me: @barefoot_anarchist.
> 
> Also the character Louise is not actually based on Louison, but rather on a real life female republican revolutionary (one of the very few active in the 1830s) called Louise de Bretagne. 
> 
> There might be further scenes in this 'verse. If there is anything you want to see, let me know :)


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